Exceptionalism
by colossally abundant numbers
Summary: The aftermath of the financial crisis is not a pretty sight. America doesn't want anyone to come over anymore, and England just wants to know why.


**summary:** The aftermath of the financial crisis is not a pretty sight. America doesn't want anyone to come over anymore, and England just wants to know why.  
><strong>pairings, characters:<strong> tiny, almost nonexistent amounts of US/UK/US, Canada

**exceptionalism  
><strong>

It started with the letters, it always did.

This time, the words were simple, framed by a dirty beige.

"We regret to inform you," the piece said, "but your inability to demonstrate credible payments for several months in a row has broken the agreement termed in Form I92. Due to the circumstances, the bank has an obligation to reprise the property as soon as possible. We apologize for any inconvenience."

So, there it was, his final verdict. The house was gone. His house was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"It's not yours anymore," they told him, and when he'd protested, complained about unlawful seizure, they'd laughed at him, holding out the wad of yuan he'd paid with. "What's this?" they asked, "You think this is money? Some dirty shit money this is." And they tossed it to the floor, dragging their boots across it, laughing.

And the civil servants – his civil servants – sat behind a fence, smiling. "We can't afford the house, Alfred. We're sorry, but it needs to go."

America nodded.

Because he understood. Because of course it wouldn't be fair for him to live in a three bedroom house, at a time like this. He'd have to make do, scrimp and save, just like everyone else.

It was only right.

–

America had gone back to the house once and only once.

The 'for sale' sign in the front yard shook violently with the wind, and the words 'bank-owned' tagged onto the top made him feel sick. This was the place that had housed all his memories for the last decade – and now it was gone. It was his fault, he knew, all his fault for being so greedy as to think he could've afforded a place like this, a miscalculation for a foolhardy dream.

"The only two things worth going into debt for," they'd told him, "are a house and a car."

And all his neighbors had been doing it, so he'd emptied his bank account for the down payment and told himself he'd find some way to deal with the monthly payment later. Then came the downward spiral: he'd found himself on China's doorstep, asking (begging) for money, for wealth, then for fortune and pride and sanity because it was slipping, it was falling and he had to keep the house, anything to keep the house.

Now, all he could do was stare at the empty walls and breathe in the familiar musk. He knew every hallway, every nook and cranny – except it was (not) his house and this was (not) his kitchen and bathroom and basement.

America felt like he was standing in the mouth of a great beast, one that he'd raised and fed and nurtured and snuggled up to every night. His lover, and now it was being forcibly taken from him, by bastards in suits, wolves in sheep's clothing. They would sell it – sell his hard work and sacrifice and take in the profits and laugh, and he could only stand behind the barbed wire fence, feeling useless and weak.

Except he wasn't useless or weak and he was going to show them just what they were up against. He was going to paint a mural of justice (of freedom, of liberty) – and he was going to sit back and laugh when he was done, just like they had.

He found a rock in the garden – sharp and jagged and perfect for the task at hand – and he stabbed it into the nearest wall, watching the formation of an ugly abrasion on the once pristine living room mantel.

And for once in his life, he felt empowered. He had control over something, and no one could stop him, no one could threaten him with debt, debt, and more debt, because now they were the victim and he the victor. He slashed at the wall again and again, humming contentedly at every new laceration.

When he was done, America stood back, admiring his mural of justice.

"Just you try," he said to the empty room, "just you try and sell this fucking place _now_."

–

His presentation – it wasn't going well.

Everyone was angry – screaming about Anglo-American financial policies, real estate bubbles, thieving bankers at the top, greedy morons in the middle, and –

America didn't want to hear them anymore. The criticism would never stop, would it? Didn't they understand? He was his people, and that was all of his people, not just the fancy ones sitting at the top. His people didn't like this – the lies, the endless jargon and paying for the loan sharks' birthday bashes and luxury cars. His people hated it, he hated it, and here they were, telling him that it was all his fault, that he'd ruined them, ruined the world as they knew it, out of greed.

"It's nice, isn't it America?" one of them had said, "Oh yes, just borrow away, borrow as much as you want! And one day, someone will pay for you, won't they?"

They had laughed, lips twisting into sneers, because by god, when would America ever do something right? Someone kicked the projector stand in anger, and it fell to the floor, spraying glass and plastic everywhere.

America just stared in shock, and then he did something he thought he would never do – he ducked out of the room and ran, never once looking back. Because what was there to look at? A world who hated him, a whole room filled with them. He couldn't listen to them again, not while he was busy worrying about where to get his next meal, not while he was toiling away in that damn office, afraid to leave because it wasn't – he couldn't afford it.

And when he'd gotten far enough – they were still there – their faces, their voices, reaching out into the distance.

–

America had cancelled his texting plan. Not that England knew – not that anyone knew. Instead, he'd taken to turning off his phone – he never looked at texts, and gave up on all calls that took longer than a minute.

England had texted him about dinner every night for a week –

"Meeting's over Alfred, dinner at In-N-Out?"  
>"Alfred, didn't catch you yesterday. Dinner?"<br>"America? Why aren't you responding? Stop being such an arse."

– and received not a single reply.

Then he'd called, yelling into the phone, "America? Where the hell have you been?"

The voice on the other end was muffled. "I've – I've been around."

"That's not an answer!" England groused, "Why have you been ignoring my texts?"

"Because," he wanted to scream, "because I don't have a fucking texting plan, and each goddamn text would cost me 20 cents too much, and didn't you idiots want me to save?" But then England would laugh at him, because he couldn't even afford basic amenities of a first world nation anymore, because he was pathetic and foolish and had squandered his money away without a care in the world.

England would laugh, and America didn't want to hear it.

"I'm tired, England," he said instead, "Can we – can we talk later?"

_Click._

–

America blamed himself. It was so stupid – why – why had he even gone in the first place?

He'd been tired, he remembered, because there was never a day of break, because if he was going to find a place to live, he needed money, and there was no time for rest. So after that month's paycheck, he'd gone out to celebrate. A few drinks wouldn't hurt, he'd rationalized, but two soon turned into three, and three into four, and then he'd found himself screaming – yelling – it was an uncontrollable rage, and he couldn't even remember why.

America woke up just as the ambulance had arrived, and they were ready to put him on it.

He'd struggled, tried to say that he didn't want this – he didn't ask for a fucking ambulance – in fact, who asked for a goddamn ambulance over a broken arm? He could reset it himself – it was a fucking bar fight. What had they expected?

"Please," he croaked, although he knew he sounded incoherent, "I don't want this – I don't need this." And besides, he'd been through worse – the eve of the Civil War – the pain had been unfathomable, a distant memory, but still –

They took him to the hospital anyway, against his every protest.

When they sent him home, the same refrain of regret and bitterness ran through his mind – because how – how had he been so dumb? What had possessed him to go to the bar that night? What had possessed him to clock a man in the jaw? What was wrong with him?

He stopped checking his mailbox – because every letter he opened, every fancy script, every typed monologue – one of them was going to be the one.

And one fateful Tuesday night – there it was.

Two thousand fucking dollars for – for the broken arm, something he could've handled himself. And the ambulance – the _goddamn_ ambulance cost ten thousand dollars, three months' salary – a quarter of a year's savings, all gone, just like that. America clutched his jaw miserably, shaking the invoice in his hands. Why hadn't that bastard at the bar listened to him? They thought they were trying to help him – _help_ – he almost laughed, because what the hell did they know about help?

–

When they adjourned for lunch, England cornered America.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked, placing a hand on the nation's shoulder.

America closed his eyes, trying to contain the sharp pain in the base of his skull. "I'm fine," he muttered, but the scowl on his face gave it all away.

"Don't lie," England said, putting America's hands in his own, "if you're fine, then why are your hands so cold? Why are you shaking – goddamn it, America, if something's wrong you know you can tell me, right?"

America turned away, quaking in anger. "Nothing's wrong, England, _nothing_. Except maybe I can do without all of you complaining about my lousy bankers at every single meeting. You think I can do something about them – you think I can stop them? I fucking _tried_, I tried and they – they – "

They'd taken the house from him, explained that they couldn't afford such luxuries anymore. Then they'd presented to him a contract filled with words he didn't understand, and told him it'd already been approved, and wouldn't he look over it and celebrate with them, congratulate their success?

"You wouldn't want to see us collapse, because you'll go down with us," they'd said, "and surely you wouldn't want that, would you? Imagine what the world will say when they see you on your knees – when they see America _begging_ – "

"Fuck you all!" he'd screamed, "You think I care? You can fall – every single one of you – and I will gladly fall with you." Because what would their success bring him? Nothing, nothing at all, except he knew that for every hour of work, he'd be funding their disruptive activities and they'd be laughing as they sat on their hunting rifles, their yachts, their birthday parties and soirées and –

They weren't smiling anymore – one of them had grabbed his collar, another latched onto his arms, and the four of them dragged him into his former house, ignoring his cries as his back was scraped raw against the sandy floor.

They slammed him against the staircase banister, and America winced as his skull struck wood.

He was cornered and he knew it – the four of them, each with a corporate logo pinned to their name-tag, each with eyes as dull as the wet sky. They tugged his arms around the railing, wrapped twine around it, and whispered, "You _will_ celebrate with us. It's a joyous occasion, can't you see? The people – they want to help us, they _have to_ help us."

"That's a lie!" he screamed, but they weren't listening.

Instead, he felt hands in his pants pocket, and he choked, terrified. What were they doing – what did they want? They fished out his wallet and dangled it in his face –

"I wonder – America – how much are you willing to give to save us?"

They emptied the wallet's contents onto the floor, and the clink of wood hitting metal grated on America's ears. They retrieved the larger denominations from the floor and stuffed them into their pockets, until their clothes looked positively bursting with cash. Then one of them reached forward and placed his hand on America's shoulder, as though he genuinely cared about his nation and would never entertain thoughts of doing him harm, never, _never_ –

"Thank you, Alfred," the man said, smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes, "It's always kind when a nation helps his fellow citizens during times of trouble."

They left then, left him tied to the staircase, a prisoner in a house that was no longer his.

–

"They did what?" England asked, shaking him from his reverie.

"Nothing," America mumbled, trying not to blink, because for some reason, the wave of pain at the base of his skull increased whenever he did so.

"America," England said, sounding weary, "Troubles are better shared than kept to yourself. I know I have not been the best example, but then you were never one to follow me, so – "

"I'm just tired, England," America whispered, turning haunted eyes toward the night sky, "I'm really tired, and I want to sleep too, but I can't, and my head – it just hurts so fucking much, I can't – I can't function. At meetings, at work, anywhere."

England sighed. "You ought to go get it checked out – maybe they'll give you some medication to alleviate the pain and then you can take a few days off, rest. I can stay with you if you need anything. I'm sure no one would mind if you took a few days off."

America looked at the floor, trying to contain the disgust and anger that had welled up in his throat. He couldn't go to the hospital, didn't England know that? They'd tell him a checkup would cost a few hundred dollars, because they were so sorry the insurance he'd worked so hard to get couldn't cover more than four checkups in a year – _so sorry_ –

– and he'd go home, sit on his couch and search his memories for cures to his headache – an aspirin here and there to clear his mind, water, juice, ale...

But England wanted assurances, and he would give them to the nation. "I … I will," he said, "Once I get home, I swear I'll find a doctor."

A lie, but hadn't he been doing that all along?

England nodded. "That's good, that's good. If you need anything in the meantime, just let me know. Oh, and before I forget, for the next meeting, you wouldn't mind me coming over for a few days, do you?"

America stared at him, confused, and then he remembered – the next meeting was over at his place, and now England wanted to come over – come over to his one-room flat in that dirty hellhole he called home. He couldn't come over – there was _no way_ he was going to let anyone see the half-rotten boxes piled in his room, the way his kitchen had been reduced to a slow-cooker stewing on the floor, and his old photos were lying in a crumpled pile on his bed.

"England..." he said at last, "I can't – it's – it's not a good time."

England scowled. "Why not, America? I'll be in your country anyway, and what else will you be doing with the empty guest rooms?"

Empty guest rooms, he wanted to laugh, _what_ empty guest rooms? He couldn't let anyone see what he'd become, because they were going to laugh, and why couldn't – why couldn't they all leave him alone? Couldn't they see he was tired of listening to them – their criticism, their self-righteous anger, _everything_.

Besides, he thought, he deserved it, right? He'd been a greedy piece of shit, thinking he could afford the place when he was just borrowing and borrowing and –

America turned away and snapped, "They're full, alright? They're all taken and I don't know why you think I'd have a room left for you – especially since you asked so late!"

Then he ran, ran as fast as his legs could take him, but England could hear the crack in his voice and the sniffle in his throat –

It was all a lie, and not a particularly well-constructed one at that.

–

England wouldn't normally go over to America's house uninvited. It just wasn't his style.

But when he'd got there, with only a hastily scrawled address as reference, he knew that something was wrong – because the locks had been switched – his spare key no longer worked, just made a sickening crunch in the keyhole and no headway.

The house was empty – and not empty like it was when America had left to get groceries, or when he'd gone north to visit his brother, it was empty like it'd been abandoned, like America would never come back. Had Alfred moved without informing him?

England stumbled back at the noises behind him – it was a young couple, all smiles and joy, and they were waving at him.

"Excuse me," the woman said, "Are you the agent?"

"What?" England asked, surprised.

"Well," the man explained, "we were told by our realtor that he'd meet us here with the keys to the door. Are you also here to see the house?" He smiled, extending his hand. "I'm Nathan, by the way."

"Arthur," he said flatly, ignoring the hand.

He pushed around them, walked to the front of the house, and stared and stared at the 'FOR SALE' sign like it was an encroaching disease. So the house was gone – it was 'bank-owned', taken by the thieves they'd been yelling at America about, and now all that was left was this sign with its air of mock arrogance and the dirty amusement of the couple behind him.

He'd get arrested if he punched them, he told himself, and then he might get deported and permanently banned from the country and – well, that was surely not worth it.

Instead, England pulled out his phone and dialed Canada.

"Matthew," he said, "Do you have any idea where your brother is?"

–

The manhunt was not going well.

"I'm sure he'll show up before the meeting," Canada had said, but England didn't want to wait until then. Because that would only mean he'd disappear right after the meeting was over – they needed an address – America's real address.

They started with the Southeast – the houses were cheaper there and the weather was warmer, so they figured he might've took his chances there. But there was nothing – every city they called had turned up nothing, every response was a variation of, "Sorry, there's no Alfred F. Jones here."

And the two of them had called, several times a day, day after day, and there'd been no response.

Then, one day, out of the blue, America called them back, and Canada had almost dropped his phone in shock.

"Hey."

"You – Where the hell have you been? You just – you – "

"Disappeared, I know. Look, it's not a big deal, I just sold my house is all. I'm fine, if that's what you're wondering. And tell England I did get my head checked out. Nothing – nothing happened."

America sounded flippant at the other end, but Canada didn't believe him.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Home," America answered.

"And _where_ is that?"

America chuckled, voice light and feverish. "In a great place. I love my new house, Canada. It's really beautiful – it's got a gazebo and a newly remodeled kitchen and a really nice patio. Isn't it nice? And I'm meeting with an interior designer tomorrow – he's going to help me figure out how to paint the walls and install a light fixture. I've got to go now – bye, Matt!"

The call ended, and Canada just stared at the phone in his hand, unsure what to make of the situation. Did America really expect him to buy into that "keeping-up-with-the-Joneses" bullshit? Did America expect him to be jealous?

(Oh, what irony there was...)

–

Some months later, the two of them had been eating in a McDonald's when they saw him –

He was sitting alone, hunched over a bag of food, his coat clinging to his body in the damp summer heat. They watched in silence as he ate – his shoulders shifting up and down with every bite. There was a nervous energy about him, as though he were afraid someone would take the food from him.

_Like the house_, England thought, suddenly bitter.

Eventually, America finished, wiped his mouth, and took his trash to the nearest can. He walked out the door, and England and Canada followed, followed him as he walked several blocks down from the restaurant onto a busy street, followed when he finally turned down an alleyway lined by cement blocks and shattered concrete.

Then, without warning, America turned around and snarled, "What the hell do you _want_?"

He froze, realizing who was there – because it wasn't two random citizens of his – it was – "Eng-England! Canada! What are you – why are you guys here?"

England ignored the question. "This is your place, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing to the building behind them.

"No," America said, "Of course not. I don't live here, I – "

But before America could say anything more, England had fished the keys from his pocket (he had been a pickpocket in his younger years, after all) and inserted them into the door. The wooden frame unlocked with ease and England stepped in, triumphant.

Then he gaped, shocked into silence by the mess on America's floor, at how _small_ the entire place was – the bed took up half the room, and the other half housed his desk, his clothes, that – that pot-like entity on the floor, and –

"America – " Canada began.

"I don't want to hear it," America snapped, "If you're only here to tell me I should've known better, that I should've realized this borrowing shit was a bad idea, I don't want to fucking hear it! You think I don't know? You think I haven't been lying awake every night, lamenting how stupid I was all along – "

"No," Canada muttered, reaching for something on the floor, "America, what's this?"

He held up a bottle of pills.

"It's Tylenol," America said gruffly, snatching the bottle from Canada's hands.

"For my head," he added, glaring at England.

Then he crouched at the door, like a wounded animal, glowering at the two unwelcome occupants of his apartment. There was a certain disease hanging about the room, and it wasn't just from shame, disgust and anger.

"Alfred," England breathed, "I'm sorry, I – " He looked away, backed away from the rows and rows of unpacked boxes and dirty clothes.

"Don't be," America said flatly, "I never needed your pity, and I won't accept it now."

His face looked ashen, lit harshly by the bare light bulb affixed to the ceiling. "I hope you're satisfied now. This is what you both wanted to see, right? America at his finest – America at his worst." He gave a short, bitter laugh and then threw up his hands, shouting, "You know what – you were right. All of you – you were right all along, and I didn't listen because I was the village idiot, because I – "

"Alfred, _please_ – " Canada began, but America just pointed to the door.

"Get out of my house."

England shook his head. "For heaven's sake, Alfred, we didn't mean this! We didn't mean to confuse you with the fellows at the top, we – "

America laughed then. "Oh, that's lovely, isn't it, England? Are you going to mock me about how I've claimed class doesn't matter, because doesn't this show that class _does _matter? That those at the top get everything and the rest of us – well, fuck the rest of us, right? Go ahead – laugh, laugh all you want, because you were right – I should've listened to you, but it's too fucking late now!"

"No, I – "

"You thought I was them, didn't you? That I lived in some great mansion, that I'd sail my yachts out to sea whenever I pleased – hah! Well, you've seen everything now – the show's _over_. My life is as clear as fucking day – what more do you want from me?"

There was a long, tense silence, where England glared at the floor, mulling his options.

Then he spoke, voice high and hesitant, "You're not alone, you know."

He sat down next to America and placed an arm around the nation's shoulders, slowly, hesitantly. He could feel the tension there, from the way America's shoulders were quaking, as though having awoke from a night terror. He could see the stress etched into the young nation's face – the way America's lips were pulled down in a perpetual frown –

"It was the same for me," he blurted out, surprised at the promptness of his own confession.

"France told you that I was a pirate once, didn't he? That I sailed the high seas and took home all sorts of treasures, except those were – they were only half-truths. I did steal, and they put me in jail for it too. Should've hung me, you know, but they couldn't quite bring themselves to execute their own country," England said, accompanied by a bitter laugh.

"So they set me up on a goddamn boat, put me out to sea. And I helped them bring down Spain's Armada, but that meant nothing to them – they were perfectly content to let me rot for in prison for some made-up crime of _debt_. Who would've guessed, America, who would've _ever _guessed that the British Empire spent his golden years rotting away in a debtor's prison?"

England shook his head, anger mounting at the memory.

America reached for England's hands then, and their fingers interlocked, twisted together at the shared sentiment.

"You know," England said after a while, "I think we all admired you, secretly. We were always comparing ourselves to you. You were the ultimate rags to riches story, and now – "

"And now it's back to rags," America finished, smiling ruefully.

–

**notes:**

This one's rather personal.

- I saw a ton of foreclosed/bank-owned houses that had been semi-destroyed by the original owners (punctured walls, windows removed entirely, etc) sometime between the years 2008 and 2010. Not all were destroyed by the original owner, some were destroyed by random vandals.

- Even if you have health insurance, there's a lot of things that it doesn't cover, so you still end up paying out-of-pocket. I had a close friend who didn't want to go into urgent care despite being in pain because she didn't know if her insurance covered it. I knew someone else whose husband had to call an ambulance – they were really lucky that their insurance covered most of it, because the ambulance was ~10K.

- And all these incidents are only with health insurance...When my parents didn't have eye-care insurance, they simply ignored their eyesight issues altogether. And getting sick became doubly stressful...

**finally, some headcanon:**

America represents his people, and that doesn't mean the upper class, the politicians, the super wealthy. I can't accept the fact that this guy would live in a fancy house (as he often does in stories) when the most of his populace don't. How is he supposed to understand what they're going through? I'll attempt 19th century England if I ever get less lazy and do some research...:P

Also, I wrote most of this while sitting on public transportation. I have nothing else to distract me on a two-hour long commute anyway. ;D Feedback is welcome!


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